


We All Fall Down

by Dumbothepatronus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apocalypse, Creatures, Dystopian Future, F/M, Family, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, POV Female Character, POV Hermione Granger, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Hogwarts, The Philosopher's Stone, Tragedy, War, the trolley problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus
Summary: Nearly three hundred years ago, Hermione and Draco distributed Philosopher's Stones to dying children. They thought they were saving the world; unfortunately, ten months ago, a stone fell into the wrong hands. Now the world is on fire, and Hermione alone can save it. Trouble is, it will cost her everything.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	We All Fall Down

It started out so pure, so innocent. Now the earth burned, and she’d never had more to lose. Hermione Granger brushed wispy tendrils of hair behind Scorpius’ ears, reveling in the sweet peacefulness of his sleep-breathing. She used to be the moral compass, the philanthropist, the champion. An angry, repressed corner of her soul still was; it roared at her every time she neatly folded the  _ Daily Prophet _ and slipped it under her teacup, unable to read another disturbing headline. But as she stood, soaking in the starlight, watching Scorpius’ eyelashes flutter against his cheek, the lioness grew quiet.

Because to smother the fire was to throw her son on the flames.

With dread pooling in her throat, she pulled down the window shade and slipped into the hall. There, she met Draco’s eyes, reflecting back the constant worry that had taken up residence in their home for the past ten months.

“How’s he doing? Alright still?” 

There was no cause for concern; not really. Draco had seen to that himself, two centuries ago when he’d pulled the ruby stone from the cauldron, the glint of victory—and the hope of a restored reputation—shining in his eyes. She’d seen to it, too, when she’d invented the spell that went beyond basic duplication, the one that could replicate complex magical objects.

If only she’d known the mayhem it would cause.

“You worry too much. As long as that stone lives and bleeds...” That was the crux, wasn’t it? Hermione stared down the long hallway. As long as the Philosopher’s stone lay protected at the bottom of Hermione’s beaded bag, inside the armored box, Scorpius would be fine. But the day he went without its life-sustaining elixir… She hated to think of the painful death he would die—that hundreds of people would die. Thousands, if you counted the creatures. 

  
  


A thunderous boom rattled the paintings on the wall, and Hermione rushed to peek through the second-story living room window. They were miles away this time, the scarlet flames that licked at the darkness and ate at the skyline. Five more explosions flashed like fireworks against the summer sky before a pair of warm, familiar arms wrapped around her middle.

“Let’s not watch this,” Draco said. “It only leads to sleepless nights and migraines.”

“Any word from the Order? Have they located the primary base?”

Draco examined his perfect fingernails.

“That’s a no, then.” Hermione twisted in his arms and searched his eyes. “Do you ever wonder if we should end this? Once and for all?”

Draco’s eyes flickered to the armored box, sitting so unassumingly on the far side of the living room. “How can you even say that? How can you think it?” His voice was ragged and raw.

“Because of this!” Hermione waved her arm at the window. “Yes, people would die. But people are already dying. How many wizards do the creatures kill daily? How many Muggles? It won’t stop. There are thousands of them; the Order has no chance. No hope. And that’s our fault.”

“Our fault? What were we supposed to do, let those Troll Flu patients die? It was hundreds of children, Hermione! Children! Wasn’t ten years of suffering enough?” His eyes flashed to the closed bedroom door, where their entire world lay sleeping.

“The original pandemic victims are grown now. It’s been exactly two-hundred and fifty years since the last victim was diagnosed. The purpose has been served. More than served; it’s been perverted.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the notes.” He pushed his hands through his hair. 

  
  


If they’d never distributed the stone, the creatures never would have existed. Their unauthorized stones, copies of copies, created imperfect elixir with serious side effects—dark, permanent stains upon their bodies and minds. Fueled by soulless hatred and a thirst for blood, they wouldn’t stop until they stood triumphant upon the bones of the world.

She alone could end it, with a single  _ Reducto. _ That was her fault, too—well, her spell’s fault. The copies were linked, dependent on the original. Destroy her stone, and she’d destroy them all.

With a tiny nod, she pushed herself out of Draco’s arms and marched to the dining room table. She’d pulled out a parchment and pen and drafted up a Venn Diagram when three taps sounded at the door.

“I suppose I’ll get that,” said Draco, with every bit of the snark he’d been perfecting since infancy. 

He waved his wand and cast a hologram spell. The image of Blaise Zabini appeared, and Draco asked, “What was my favorite treat as a child?”

“Asparagus puffs.” Blaise made a face. “And I’ll never forget the day you made me try one.”

It took Draco ten minutes to dismantle the security spells. Although Hermione was their secret keeper, you never could be too careful—especially when the fate of the world laid at the bottom of your purse.

Blaise shook fine black dust out of his robes and onto the entry rug. Draco scrunched up his nose and vanished it, then began the work of refortifying the door. “What’s the climate like? Any news from Patterson?” 

Blaise sighed. “I don’t like it. Every day that passes, we lose more and more ground. It doesn’t matter how many shields we place; they rip through them in seconds. Wizards can hide under the Fidelius Charm, but—”

Draco nodded over his shoulder. “But the Muggles can’t.”

Hermione frowned at her Venn Diagram. The way she saw it, she had three options: One, create a new Philosopher’s stone and destroy the old one. As soon as the original copy no longer existed, each of the duplicates, including the secondary ones, would vanish. No stones, no creatures, no war. But the stone took ten years to produce, assuming they could even find the ingredients in this war-torn world. 

Option two: Continue to aid the Order and hope for a miracle, a discovery that could squash the creatures. But every day, that possibility looked less and less likely. Every day, hundreds of people died.

Option Three…

Her pen paused next to the final circle. Could she even write the words? The words that would sentence her only son to death? 

Blaise’s heavy war boots trudged across the floorboards. “Whaddya got there? Tomorrow’s battle strategy? I keep telling Tomlinson that the top priority is the southern wall. If we can strengthen that, they’ll have to swim across the Thames to—” His voice died away, leaving only the sounds of explosions and destruction.

“Don’t write option three, Granger. After all the good you’ve done in the world, we couldn’t ask it of you. How long does it take to die from elixir dependency? Three days? Four? You’ll be gone—we’ll all be gone—within a week.”

“Scorpius would die within a day.” Hermione stared at her lap. “Which is technically the stone’s fault, too.”

Draco scoffed. “It’s the stone’s fault he’s alive in the first place, if you want to get to that.”

Another side-effect of her selfishness. Hermione pressed her lips together. After dedicating hundreds of years to solving the world’s problems, she’d longed to devote the rest to a child. The elixir that made Scorpius’ life possible could also take it away; his prenatal exposure left him dependent upon it. 

“I looked at my records last night,” Hermione said. “After the Troll Flu pandemic, we issued exactly fifty-five additional copies of the stone for dying children, fifty-two of whom are well past grown. We cannot justify letting the world burn for the sake of three premature deaths. Four with Scorpius.”

Blaise frowned. “Such a shame; two hundred and forty years without a single incident. I knew there was something shifty about Charles Drayburn. Never should have issued him a stone.” 

He slipped into a dining chair and traced the Venn Diagram’s final empty circle. “We’ve had a good run. Much longer lives than we dared to hope for, especially back in sixth year when we had old Voldy stomping around our mansions.” He tilted his head up and looked Draco straight in the eye. “But it doesn’t mean the same thing for me that it does for you. My children are long gone, my grandchildren long dead. But you—how old is Scorpius? Five?”

Hermione placed the nib of her quill against the parchment. “And how many five-year-olds are slaughtered daily in London’s streets? How much of their blood will stain our city—our world—before we give this up?”

By the last circle, she wrote:  _ Do the right thing. Destroy the stone. _

Outside, a bomb bellowed. The floors shook, the windows rattled. A watercolor painting fell from the wall, crashed glass-first against the hardwood. Draco rushed to the window. “They’re down the street. Great Godric, it’s the Mortensen’s house.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around him, peeking out from behind his shoulder. Hunched-backed creatures with pasty white skin and red-glowing eyes scrambled up the driveway, over the Mortensen’s shingled roof, and scratched at their front door. Scarlet flames licked the windowpanes from the inside, reflecting their fire into the creature’s eyes. 

The lioness raged within her, begged her to run out into the street and fight for her neighbor’s lives. But it would do no good; even magic couldn’t thwart these immortal monsters.

“Mummy? Daddy? I heard a bang.”

Hermione fumbled for the cord and pulled the window shade down over the horror happening practically on their front porch. “Just the horse painting, darling. Its sticking charm must have expired.”

She shot a silencing spell at the window. No child should carry the burden of this world upon his shoulders. And if any child would try, it would be sweet, kindhearted Scorpius. The cuffs of his pajama bottoms brushed the floor as he walked over and ran his finger over the picture’s glass. “It’s broke, Mummy. Can we fix it, so the horsey doesn’t get an owie?”

Hermione swallowed hard. But she grabbed her wand, knelt next to her son, and whispered, “ _ Reparo _ .” The glass mended in a second, just as Harry Potter’s glasses had on the train hundreds of years ago, and just as her father’s had every Christmas when they broke. Sometimes she suspected he did it on purpose, just so he could clap and cheer over the way the glass smoothed out into perfect clarity.

Hermione settled into the living room couch and pulled the painting into her lap. Scorpius followed, snuggling against her side and pulling his feet up onto the cushions. 

“Have I told you about this picture? About who painted it?”

Scorpius shook his head. “It doesn’t move like the portraits in the back hall.”

Draco walked away from the window and motioned for Blaise to join him in the office. But try as they might to draw up an effective battle strategy, his efforts would be wasted. If the lioness got her way, General Huskington would never lay eyes on it. 

“Your Grandpa Granger painted this. He did a lot of paintings in his last year, before the cancer took over completely.”

“What’s cancer, Mummy?”

Hermione ran her fingers over the horse’s back. “You know how we drink elixir every day?”

Scorpius nodded. “I like it. It tastes like cherry tart.”

“Well, Grandpa Granger had an elixir too, a Muggle one. Except one day, it stopped working.”

“Then he died?”

Hermione nodded. “Everyone has to die someday. Death is a natural part of life; what isn’t natural is living forever. Like Mummy does. Like Daddy. Still, it doesn’t stop people from trying. It turns out, people will become almost anything to keep on living.”

“Like the creatures?” His voice was so serious, so somber; it broke Hermione’s heart. They’d tried so hard to hide the terror from him, but it was too enormous. 

“Yes. But lucky for us, we have a way to stop them.” She shifted the painting onto the empty cushion next to her and walked across the room to the armored box. Before she could change her mind, the stone was glowing scarlet in her palm. She stared back to the couch, to Scorpius and his striped pajamas. “If we destroy this, the war will end. Extinguishing this one red light will smother the rest.” The burning eyes, the fires, the blood—all of it. “There will be no more elixir. In a few days, we’ll die—you, me, Daddy. Uncle Blaise, too. 

Scorpius stood, crossed his arms in front of him, and gave the shortest, bravest little nod. “Do it. I’m not scared to die—’specially if you’ll be in heaven, too.”

Voices rumbled from the back hall—Draco and Blaise must have finished their meeting. Any second they’d emerge from the hall, and Draco would try to stop her. Hermione grabbed her wand from her back pocket, fingers trembling as she placed the stone on the floor and spelled an explosion shield around it. No sense in blowing the entire house apart.

Hermione’s heart pounded; the voices were growing clearer, louder. 

She pointed her wand—” _ Reducto _ .”

Flames bloomed within the transparent dome. Draco’s eyes, wide and terrified, appeared around the corner where the hallway met the living room. The burning calmed, fizzled into embers and revealed ruby shards and a drop of elixir, like blood against the Persian rug. 

Roaring with pain, with shock, Hermione’s heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the voices, the footsteps, the shouts. But then there were fingers, cold and trembling against her forearms. Draco’s fingers. He stared back at her with hollow eyes. “Now what?”

Hermione swallowed. “Now we wait.”


End file.
